


Princess Is Just Another Word For Awesome

by kissmebloody



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Rape, Cuddling, Deanna Winchester being a BAMF, F/F, Fluff, Foul Language, Gender Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmebloody/pseuds/kissmebloody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deanna says 'Screw Nebraska' on a day-in day-out basis. </p>
<p>She only means it half the time though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Princess Is Just Another Word For Awesome

**Author's Note:**

> my contribution to the SPN Femslash Gift Exchange! This is gift is for quilmora@tumblr and they're really great, go check'em out!

Deanna would never get over it.

She's ogled Abaddon Blaire since she started bar tending at the Roadhouse. Has watched the red headed pistol whomp every man who walked through the door at darts and drinking, seen her go out to smoke at least three times a night with never a sliver of lipstick gone as she walks back through the swinging saloon doors. Deanna used to flirt with Abaddon when she’d pay off her tab for the night, throw in compliments and offhanded comments about the wins she made and the bets she obliterated on the table. Abaddon would only smirk at her and say “Goodnight, Winchester.” and leave only to be back the next evening around 9 to rack up more winnings at the dart boards.

Deanna used to pine after that woman. Admired her from afar and up close.

She still does.

Except now, as Deanna is closing up the bar and thinking about what she and Abaddon might go do tomorrow evening on her night off, the elder Winchester has a smile and not a string of nervousness hanging off of her shoulders. Three months now she and Abaddon had been ‘together’ as her brother put it. Sam had always been the romantic, Deanna the pessimistic optimist; she called her and Abaddon’s relationship what it was: a relationship. Deanna was still giddy over it, and was reluctant to ruin the glamour by ripping the wrapper off of her eyes. 

The wee morning air was chilly, making Deanna huddle into her beat up leather jacket and flannel, bra wires pressing into the soft skin over her rib cage. “Fuck Nebraska.” She spat out half heartedly while lighting a cigarette to warm her chilled lungs. Three years of living here, a rickety old one room house about five miles from Harvelle’s Roadhouse and just out of city limits would never make her forget the cold, but she still loved it here nonetheless. After Sam had gone off to college, Deanna’d moved away from their drunken father and closer to Ellen Harvelle (owner of aforementioned Roadhouse), an old family friend who was always willing to help John’s kids. 

Just maybe not John himself.

Deanna had finished her post-lock-up building walk-around when she was pushed down to the ground. Hard. The half burnt cigarette flopped uselessly and still cindering orange to the gravel and. It was subsequently stomped out by a heavy boot. 

Deanna moved her arms in front of her body to push it up but was pushed down by the matching heavy boot in the right side of her vision. Her breath gushed out of her in a violent swoop when she felt gravel scrape over her freckled cheek. 

"Hey now Winchester, you look pretty down there 'n the dirt'n'rocks. Maybe y'should stay down there, be the bitch you're so desperate t'be." Deanna heard more than felt a blob of (likely tobacco filled) saliva pelt the cold, crunchy gravel next to head. The wet plopping noise nearly made her gag.

Just laying on the animal piss and car refuse invested ground made it hard for her to take in a breath through her mouth.

"Get off'a me you asshat!” Deanna growls out into the gravel, the only response is a gruff handful of chuckles and another wad of saliva plashing into the dirt somewhere she couldn’t see. She finally gets her hands underneath her and pushes with enough energy to put herself into pushup position only to be thrown off balance by her momentum meeting no resistance. The blonde ungracefully flounces onto her knees and is then kicked in the hip with a dull thud and falls to her side with a shout. 

“Sweetheart you ain’t seen nothin’ if yer still callin’ me an ‘asshat.’ ‘Cause you’ll soon be callin’ me ‘God’ when I’m through with ya.” The pain zipping down her side from her hip was keeping Deanna down, keeping her from hauling herself up to her full six feet two inches and flogging the redneck with his own shoelaces. The blonde kept her hands pressing to her hip, feeling around tentatively in a panic to make sure nothing was broken; thankfully she was blessed by some capricious god. “C’mon ya bitch. You wanna look like one then you better present like one too.”  
Deanna snarled at him, a punch of adrenaline bursting through her heart and into her throat.

“Fuck you.” Her boots were pushing her back, legs trying to get her further away from the deranged (more than likely drunk) man. Deanna couldn’t see his face, the lone streetlamp in front of the parking lot was sitting right behind his skull--something that Deanna would take great pleasure in cracking if she had the chance. She could only guess that he might have contorted his features into that of annoyance or seething anger for the man sped the three feet she’d managed to get between them and reached down to pull her boot up above her body.

“Little bitch ain’t you got manners? Ya’ll give it up for a man who’s willin’ ta give it to you rats.” The man slurred out a hiss on the last word, droplets of disgusting spittle flying from what might have been a mustache covering his upper lip. 

Adrenaline was shooting in bursts down Deanna’s limbs, pressing up against the insides of her skin and urging her to move from her assailant’s grip. Her palms shook when she pressed them to the gravel instead of her hip, the pain but a dull twinge singing in the back of her mind, and pushed her body up and around, twisting her torso over to face the ground and slinging her boot clad foot into the man’s face. He dropped her other foot and dropped to the packed gravel with a scream.

Deanna’d hit his nose, blood streamed out of it in what seemed like waves.

“You fucking bitch!” Voice muffled and wet, the man could only sit with his nose cradled in bloody, calloused hands. His facial hair was likely soaked with blood but Deanna couldn’t even try to care any less than she did; she’d felt her palms cut open and they were beginning to smart.

She wiped blood onto her jeans and kicked the guy with her good side. 

“You come back into this bar,” Deanna huffs out a snort and doesn’t finish her sentence. He tried to fuck with her, she’d tell Ellen and there’d be no one in The Roadhouse who’d let the fucker in without lead in his face. The man on the ground groans out into the nights air.

Deanna knows her breath is labored when she opens her Baby’s door, hinge squeaking and clanging shut when she’s seated herself into the old bench seats. Baby starts after three clicks of the keys, she’s too old for the sharp crispness of Nebraska. The blonde in the driver’s seat hums out a long note of pressure, her throat convulsing.

The ten minute drive is silent, hard, and easy all at once. Deanna feels like the heavy black roof is about to cave in on her by the time she’s stumbled out into her gravel drive and locked up Baby.

Deanna’s home is surrounded by two tall trees and stubbly brush; leaves litter the ground already from the wind while no cars pass by at 3AM. It’s nice to come home to a warm lamp and an even warmer bed. 

She walks up the two steps and unlocks the old wooden door, heat washing over her red cheeks from the space heater aimed at the mattresses pressed up to a corner adjacent to the door. It’s easy enough to step out of her boots, the leather clunking down to the hardwood floor with Deanna’s socks and three layers of flannel. She’ll pick them up tomorrow.

It’s been a long, long day.

The bathroom is her first stop, washing her face of makeup and brushing her teeth. Then a shower to wash off the bar smell. Deanna loved The Roadhouse, loved her surrogate mom Ellen and her sister Jo, but she did not like smelling of three kinds of six different beers, twenty different hard liquors and too many bar nuts. Sam liked to call her shop keep when he came to visit, because she smelled like an overturned liquor store. 

Deanna’s got shorts and a t-shirt on when arms wrap themselves around her waist and a head of red curls rest on her shoulder to look at her through the mirror.

“Annie come to bed,” Abaddon’s watching her with tired eyes and pouty lips. Deanna places a hand over hers and squeezes with a small smile. 

“I’m comin’ ‘Don.” She says back to her other. Abaddon’s been staying here most nights, driving the 15 miles back into town every morning to go to work at 9 while Deanna sleeps until noon before heading back to The Roadhouse at 2. Abaddon nuzzles into Deanna’s neck and kisses the freckles that spatter along her tan. 

“You’re stalling though. You’re shower took longer than normal.” Deanna has nothing to say to that, not a word that could be used in her defense without telling what happened after her lockup. The redhead notices Deanna’s eyebrows curve inward and up in seeming pain. It’s harder to keep herself in check when someone’s so easy to talk to. “What’s happened?”

Deanna’s shakes her head and turns around in Abaddon’s arms, kissing her temple and wrapping Deanna’s arms around her smaller waist. “Nothing unusual. A jerkoff cornered me outside the bar tonight, wanted in my pants like every other desperate guy.” Deanna wants to play it off with a wink until Abaddon tries to rest her hand and squeeze Deanna’s left hip in reassurance. 

Deanna winces too hard and Abaddon’s eyes are alight.

“He hurt you this time. He got a hit in because he came from behind, huh?” Abaddon’s pulling Deanna forward and out of their small bathroom and into the living room slash bedroom. Deanna’d never move even if she and her belongings were dragged out into the snow. They stop at the foot of the mattresses, stacked up on one another to give a bit of height and more cushion on the hard floor. Abaddon sits down slowly, pulling Deanna with her and maneuvering them both onto the bed with Deanna’s head on Abaddon’s collar bone.

Abaddon rakes a hand through Deanna’s bob of hair, pushing the blonde strands flat against her head and smoothing down her neck with red red nails. “My little princess Annie kicked his ass huh? Kicked his ass to next Tuesday and he knows he won’t come back unless he wants a broken leg or two.”

Deanna can only nod her head into Abaddon’s shirt and smile small again.

Because their Princess is everyone else’s Awesome.


End file.
